


Sweet Talk of the Storm

by cannibalinc



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Daddy Kink, If You Squint - Freeform, Knotting, M/M, Steter Secret Santa, slight - Freeform, slight Breeding Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalinc/pseuds/cannibalinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Matching sweaters, Peter."</p><p>Peter wonders what he's ever done to attract such clichés.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Talk of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [demios-itami](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=demios-itami).



Peter rolls over Tuesday morning at the precise time of 8:22. He spends the next seven minutes ruminating on the pathetic state of his life, reliving his failures and considering taking up the whole killing people lark again, before he finally peels himself from his mattress and plants his feet firmly on the cold hardwood floor and reminds himself that an average life isn’t so, so bad. He has cable television and a coffee maker, a toothbrush even.

God help him, he’s going to go crazy.

By 8:30, he is in the bathroom, spilling the acrid smell of shaving cream under his nose and losing himself to the mundanity of grooming. He’d been thankful years ago, when he’d been able to do these things for himself, not rely on a half-mad nurse, not crippled by his dependency. Now, he wonders if it might be better just to walk off into the woods and never walk out. The razor glides over his chin and cheeks, under his nose and across his philtrum. He does this without much concentration, hears the grainy sound of his hairs resisting before they are cut.  

He turns on his kettle while brushing his teeth, freeing the tethers of his human face so he can scrub the canines of the face underneath. The bristles feel good. Like gamy prey sun-dried and clean. He pads around his small apartment in a house robe, as the December air is too cool even for him to walk around comfortably nude when he’s just rolled out of a sweat-warm bed. Just as he hears the water in the kettle begin to simmer, the soft hiss of microbubbles forming, there regurgitates a muffled cry.

Peter watches his kettle in mild alarm and suspicion, half anticipating it to warble again.

There is another pitiful mewl, but not from the kettle, he notes with relief. At least he’ll be able to keep the thing, and not lose it to some bizarre magical malady which affects inanimate objects with an infant’s voice.

With encroaching dread, or something very much like that by the distinct chill dripping down his hide, Peter steps up to his door. There is no peep hole or mail flap, as it’s in indoor flat in a complex, so Peter holds his breath and listens. Sniffling. A fast, squirrely heart beat. With the toothbrush still gripped in his mouth, caught on his sharp teeth, his robes tied securely for the oncoming draft, Peter unlocks the knob, the bolt, the chain, and removes the rubber doorstopper with his toes, and swings the door open for reluctant receiving.

A squirmy, fat baby looks up at him and promptly wails.

Peter’s first instinct is to eat it; after all, rejected cubs are eaten all the time, and Peter seems to remember hearing similar threats from his own mother if he and Talia couldn’t behave, so it can’t be too strange by human standards. But then he thinks of how the pack might feel if they heard about the incident, and somehow they always do. He glances out into the empty hall and back down at the little baby. It’s bundled in a wool blanket that smells like mothballs and creamsicle candies, its head wrapped in a pale purple hat, black curls peaking around the cap. Peter considers leaving it. He lives in the crummy side of Beacon Hills, can’t imagine why anything about his door advertised he’d be the proper place to practice storking, his neighbors mostly _in absentia_ literally or strung out on some collection of very lucrative paraphernalia. They probably wouldn’t even notice the little plaque on his welcome mat; or actually eat it themselves. Hmm… something on which to speculate.

Peter gingerly circles the baby then nudges its ruddy, noisy self with his toe until he has scooted it over his threshold. Maybe if he doesn’t touch it too much, he can return it to the wild.

The baby skids along until it is on his floor, in his den. It is still crying; loudly, unabashedly and with no consideration for Peter’s altogether superior senses. He smells, now that he is trapped with it, rancid spit and milk, urine and worse.

When is the right time to panic? he wonders. His water is boiling, and numbly he unplugs the whistling kettle, retrieves a mug, a strainer and his peach medley tea leaves, all the while staring at the the wriggling, screeching infant. He sits on his stool. Gazes intently.

He cannot remember the last time he’d been close to a baby. Cora, probably. No, it had been their cousin, Tegan. He’d been several years younger than Derek and Cora. Dead now, of course.

Peter reaches for his phone, where he’d left it the previous night on the countertop, turned off so his pack would have to try particularly hard in contacting him, and thus dissuade them entirely, idealy. He turns it on, goes to his contacts and calls.

It goes through on the second ring.

“Peter, I know I told you I’m the only one in Beacon Hills outside of 911 who would accept your calls, but I was mostly jo-- Is that a baby crying I hear?”

“Stiles,” Peter says, and it comes out parched and gristly despite the tea. He’s tucked his true face away because he doesn’t like to chip his mugs with his teeth. “I have an emergency.”

“It had better be, for calling me today of all days,” Stiles replies, tinny and small over the phone. “Why is there a baby screaming?”

“That’s the emergency.”

There is a long silence while Peter imagines Stiles is giving every physical indication that he absolutely does not want to drive out to Peter’s rather demur abode to deal with a wailing child. Perhaps he should have called Lydia, if at least for she and the baby to have some sort of vocal solidarity.

“Do you need anyone else to come too?”

They’d all laugh, probably. At least Stiles is always an asshole, and Peter expects it.

“No.”

“You’re lucky I’m not busy,” Stiles finally grouses, and the line clicks dead.

An hour later, the baby has finally exhausted itself to only sort-of loud cries, and Peter finally hears the clatter and thump of a familiar gait coming to his door. His tea has gone cold.

Peter opens the door before Stiles can knock and startles at the sight of Stiles’ cheeks cold-abused and red, arms laden with a gold plate of macadamia nut cookies. He stares, baffled. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You have no idea, do you?”

He shoves his way into the unit, shoving the plate in Peter’s arms and unbuttoning his thick coat, trailing the scent of pine and, Peter shivers icly, fireplace cinder.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Stiles sighs.

Peter looks up from his plate, eyebrows raised. He loves macadamia nut cookies.

“Exactly my point-- oh my god!”

Ah, he’s discovered the dilemma.

“That’s a baby!” Stiles shouts, stepping back from where he had almost ended its existence with a single well-placed boot step. “You have a baby on your floor!”

“Yes, as we previously covered in our phone call,” Peter steps carefully back to his stool and takes a seat, leaning his back against the edge of the counter. “It appeared rather miraculously at my door this morning, and I was hoping you’d fix that.”

Stiles looks down at it, both baby and man-child flushed and equally disgruntled at their respective positions. Stiles bends down and lifts the child easily, loosening the blanket and peering underneath. The stench of human excrement permeates the kitchen, and Peter grimaces.

“You’d be complaining too, if you were laying in your own shit all morning,” Stiles says, walking to the small thermostat on the wall and cranking up the heat before unraveling the baby’s portable nest and rolling up his sleeves. He works automatically, something Peter has always enjoyed watching Stiles do; the sure confidence he has simply in being in motion. Stiles runs the water in Peter’s sink until he pulls off the cloth diaper and runs it under the spray. He finds a cloth and wipes the reddened flesh on the baby’s soft, brown skin with the bar of soap and water. The infant still fusses, though with decidedly less energy.

“Go get one of your shirts,” Stiles says, not looking up from his task, cradling the baby’s dark head in his large palm, dabbing the inflamed rash on its legs with the rag. “And take this blanket and diaper and start your washer. We can’t take her anywhere until she’s wrapped up again.”

Peter does as he’s told. He’s rediscovered he makes a good beta, not as good a beta to Scott as he made to Talia, but Scott isn’t a bad Alpha. And the soft, diligent way Stiles eyes rove over the little baby, the gentle slope of his usually cutting words makes Peter want to obey. He doesn’t really feel comfortable with examining why this could be.

He takes the smelly, wet scraps and throws them in the wash with a disproportionate amount of detergent and a little touch of vinegar to eradicate any unsavory scents. He might have been interested in preserving the history of smell in the fibers, for tracking, but Peter is more concerned in the immediate arrest of his nose, and subsequent, hasty assuaging.

When he gets back to the kitchenette, Stiles has the thing swaddled effectively in one of Peter’s soft cotton blends, one long finger tracing a soft, fatty cheek as the baby gurgles in sleep, a tiny, just-there smile turning one side of his mouth. Peter’s stomach treacherously dips to the floorboards.

They move to the couch not far away, as Peter’s apartment is comprised of three rooms; the kitchenette paired livingroom, the bathroom, and the bedroom. It has two closets, one for clothing and the like, and the other for the washer and dryer. It’s a fine set-up, only that Peter can’t run laundry at night unless he doesn’t plan on sleeping; which is known to happen.

“A product of some barside fling?” Stiles asks as he leans back in the cushions and makes himself at home. He’s been inside Peter’s home two or three times before, and had been every bit as incorrigibly comfortable each time since the first.

“I haven’t exactly pursued the scene,” Peter says. It’s been years, yes, since he’s been awake, since he’s come back again and lived simply. But sexuality since his return has erred on the side of animalistic, brings forth images of woods and making chase. He can’t imagine any poor human taking kindly to his requests for down in the leaves tussles, and he can’t imagine he’d feel inclined to refrain from ravaging them if he reached even that point.

Stiles accepts this easily enough, props his feet up on the low standing coffee table.

“We need to take her up to the police station and report an unclaimed child. But first, we need to feed her, so once those blankets and stuff get dry, we’ll go see if any stores are open for the holiday.”

Peter balks. “We?”

It sounds weak, but in all fairness, Peter had expected this whole situation to be lifted airily and with finality from his person and vicinity the moment Stiles had arrived. Stiles grins meanly, stroking the baby’s ear, holding her close.

“Of course, Peter. You’ll need to make a statement at the station, and we’ll probably be caring for her until after Christmas since all of the usual routes to child services and missing persons are shut down.”

“You’re kidding.”

He isn’t. And when the washer alerts its completed cycle and Peter starts the dryer, his arms feel boneless, his stomach is roiling and Stiles is singing under his breath something that sounds vaguely like an absurd amount of consonants and like he’s maybe clearing his throat. Peter guesses Polish.

Stiles deposits the baby in Peter’s arms, instructs him briefly on how to hold a baby without it winding up with brain damage and goes to start the jeep and warm it up. Peter looks after him helplessly. This close, Peter can see the pinprick freckles on her nose, the birthmark on her left little earlobe. The baby opens her deep black eyes blearily, sees who is looking down at her, and of course she cries.

Peter lets out a constant, pitiful note that he is certain qualifies as whining, and that is what the two are doing when Stiles returns giving Peter a look of exasperation.

“I didn’t know I’d be taking care of two infants,” Stiles calls from the dryer, the baby once again in his possession and currently wrapping her in her freshly warmed coats. She looks exactly the same as when she’d barged in, though smelling like Peter rather than piss, and that bothers him even more.

Peter is once again subjected to carrying the little terror, neither participants of which are especially pleased, but Stiles is driving both car and later cart. The local grocery and pharmacy is open, and Stiles navigates the aisles, snatching jars and powders and salves, diapers and clothes like he was doing this just yesterday while Peter tries to puzzle out a less annoying way to tote a baby. Conclusively, there isn’t one.

“When did you become Mr. Gerber For Life?” Peter asks somewhere in between formulas and wipes.

Stiles heaves a sigh, but throws a fond look at the baby Peter is better contented to ignore.

“Braeden is pregnant. Emissary is apparently pack wet nurse. Deaton, predictably, failed to mention this until I ignorantly assumed the non sequitur, ‘hospital birth’.”

“Derek has chosen to reproduce,” Peter intones balefully.

“You all right there, grandpa?”

Peter glares at Stiles. They’ve already been confused as grandfather-father-daughter by the retailer at the door. It’s just tacky to keep bringing it up.

“What was the point in teaching Derek that family is just as backstabbing as the general population if he wasn’t going to listen?”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Stiles snorts as he puts a box of plastic nipples into the cart, “but it takes Derek a few rounds before a life lesson sinks in. I’m just thankful Braeden hasn’t turned out to be a supervillain. Yet.”

“Are you suggesting I go on another rampage of the fratricide sort to help speed along the learning process?”

“At least wait until after the New Year,” Stiles laughs. Peter watches too long, but is too scrupulous to be shamed when Stiles notices.

At the station, after Stiles had swiped Peter of his credit card somehow and robbed him of $87.45 of baby junk, Stiles takes the kid from him, and Peter’s arms are slightly bereft, suddenly lighter and freer. Peter feels oddly like he should reach after them, but squashes the notion under his shoe along with the slushy curb snow. Snow in California. Peter can’t decide which is worse; getting snow or a baby dumped on him. Regardless, he is relocating to the tropics as soon as possible.

Sheriff Parrish actually coos when he sees Stiles with the baby, rubs his knuckles along her cheek and makes insufferably stupid faces; rather, more stupid than is normal for Parrish. The man glowers when he hears Peter’s part in the story, but otherwise keeps his comments to himself. Peter hasn’t really been in legal trouble since his “mistaken identity” mishap what with his death being incorrectly filed, but Parrish trusts his gut, and Peter will be the first to tell him that his gut isn’t wrong.

Stiles mixes up a bottle of formula, sharper than the smell of real milk, while one of Parrish’s deputies gets the paperwork. Parrish holds the baby, and Peter eats his growl, disliking him butting in on his pack’s, on his and Stiles’ business. Stiles teaches Parrish how to hold the bottle, how to prevent gas and spitting up. The baby pukes white on his uniform and badge, and Peter feels the first inkling of approval for this little girl. Stiles returns her to Peter, and he gets the pleasure of showing off his holding abilities without any vomit making an appearance. Not that Peter’s first introduction with the infant had been any better, but Parrish doesn’t need to know that.

“Romana,” Stiles is saying in the car, “Marylle. Ionan. Caterina, Sloan, Torri.”

“What,” Peter asks, “are you doing?”

“We have to name her,” Stiles says like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

Peter looks down at the baby girl. He’s already let her into his house, picked her up and held her. He’s reasonably positive he can’t release her back into the wild if he names her.

“Jessica,” Stiles keeps suggesting to which Peter makes a noise of dissent. Who names a child Jessica after 1995?

“Ophilie,” Stiles says as he flicks his blinker and turns right and-- wait.

“This is not the way to my apartment.”

Stiles actually laughs.

“Of course not. Your place can’t sustain a baby. We’ll stay at mine. Don’t worry; I packed you a bag while I was dressing little Gertrude here.”

Peter gives him a hard look, which Stiles pretends not to notice in favor of turning into a cheesy, all-American neighborhood around the corner from Beacon Hills’ only elementary school.

“We’re stopping by my dad’s for a second, because I need to pick up some things. Dad should have an old car seat and carrier. Oh yeah, the pack will be there for dinner, because I’ve been cooking for the last three days and had planned on relaxing the rest of my time before dinner. You know, before you called me.”

Would Stiles hold a grudge? Peter stares at Stiles with careful scrutiny for signs of purposeful malice. Stiles isn’t one to practice cruelty conspicuously, and Peter wouldn’t put it past him to be exacting some years-old revenge on him. Ah, there, a ghost of a smirk.

“You think this is funny.”

“Undeniably,” Stiles replies shamelessly.

The retired Sheriff’s house is neat. The lawn is carefully manicured, the driveway shoveled meticulously. Peter could always run home, but a particularly cold breeze cuts through his coat. He hates the cold.

“You and Derek really are related. Stop sulking.”

“Showing how deeply my offense runs would only encourage your persecution.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and opens the front door with a shouted “Hey, dad!”

Stiles’ father predictably, like Parrish, adores the baby and spends long moments giving her butterfly kisses and rubbing their noses together. He doesn’t understand why he’s the only one reacting reasonably; with distaste and--and if John Stilinski doesn’t stop moving around so recklessly with the little girl in his arms Peter’s going to--

Stiles hipchecks him, eyebrows raised.

“Relax, old man.”

Peter sniffs. He is the picture of youth.

They sit in the livingroom, the cloying smell of smoked meat and roasted herbs looming from the kitchen and making Peter’s jaws ache, his neck hairs prickle with the hunt, while members of their pack arrive. The Alpha, who looks at Peter in surprise and suspicion over Stiles’ shoulder as they embrace, and Scott’s mother who pointedly looks over Peter’s very existence. Only Isaac arrives after, Argent spending Yuletide with her family, probably torturing woodland animals, Lydia in Venice; as he’s told. Derek and Braeden are presumably celebrating their virility someplace so long as it’s far away from Peter.

They pass the baby around like they do the food dishes, and by the time Isaac has nervously fumbled her, Peter’s teeth are pricking his lips in agitation. Stiles carries her for the remainder of the meal, feeding her another bottle of formula, and Peter can finally enjoy the casserole.

“So, Peter,” Stilinski begins, as everyone is biting into peach cobbler. Peter is having problems actively listening over the consuming flavor of warm, ripe peach and buttery crust. His compliments to the chef. “You’ll be helping Stiles with our little guest?”

“I will?” Peter says, receives a sharp elbow in the ribs from Stiles who is innocently rocking the star of the night to sleep. Peter clears his throat meaningfully. “I will.”

“And I get that you’ll be staying with my son for the duration?”

Stilinski is looking into his eyes and communicating the magazine of wolfsbane bullets resting snugly in the pistol strapped to his waist with perfect clarity. Peter catalogues all of the exits in the house that he knows before answering. It isn’t fear; Peter is a pragmatist. The sweat on his brow is because the dining room chandelier is hot.

“I’ll need the extra hands,” Stiles explains, and at least Peter finally knows why he’s still being dragged around in this mess. He’s almost positive both he and his father are giving Stiles an identical look of dubiety. Stiles grins.

Stilinski indeed has a carseat that they install in Stiles’ jeep after everyone has trickled out of the house to return home. Peter is glad for their departure and listens from the livingroom as Stiles father scolds him for his life choices and misplaced trust as they buckle in the seat. Peter finds himself nodding along. Stiles _does_ have a propensity for a hazardous sense of humor and a knack for questionable taste in company-- excuse _you_ , Stilinski.

“Thanks, dad,” Stiles replies sarcastically and calls for Peter. He goes, a sleeping baby in his arms, who snuffles when the cold air hits her cheeks, and Peter turns her face into his coat without much thought. Stiles takes her and places her in the harness. She doesn’t like it once she realizes she’s stuck there, their faces leering from high above; maybe something to do with being left on the floor for two hours earlier today.

What a day.

When they get to Stiles’ place, Peter realizes he’s never actually seen it. It is an apartment like Peter’s, though significantly better furnished, better located; better in really any conceivable way. No tea kettle though. There is a wreath hanging in the front window and a gingerbread cookie candle burning. Stiles sets the carrier up like a crib, pads it with blankets so she’ll be insulated against the cold. Human babies are so fragile. Peter was already running in the woods and catching birds from the air, eating them raw by this age. He’s told that was a quality unique only to him however, so Peter supposes he can’t hold everyone to his own lifelong excellence.

Stiles doesn’t shower, says he’ll do it in the morning, and Peter changes into his soft flannel pants.

When they intend to sleep, Stiles motions Peter to the bedroom with a courteous smile.

“We’re both adults,” he says.

“You’ll be more comfortable this way,” he says.

“Come to bed,” he says.

Stiles speaks softly, intimately, and he smells like child sweetness and milk. Peter’s jaw clenches as he inhales greedily. He imagines following Stiles, laying in the sheets where it will smell the same, though with Peter’s scent mingling too, and oh, he sees something mischievous in his hospitality.

“You planned for this.”

“Did I?” Stiles asks lightly, cuts Peter a sideways glance.

“Are you seducing me?”

“Am I?” Stiles asks genuinely. He’s pulling on the drawstrings of Peter’s pajama pants, tugging him into Stiles’ room, the cool darkness where a baby sleeps.

They tangle in the bed, and Peter gets to kiss Stiles’ ever-moving mouth and grip his frustratingly nonsensical hair. They grind, and Peter breathes through his mouth, tasting their scents, caught in cotton prisons. Stiles bites Peter’s lip and groans deep. Peter is just clawing Stiles by the thighs, forcing his legs open when a shrill cry breaks through their heavy breathing.

Stiles laughs as Peter collapses with a piteous growl.

The baby wakes three more times after that, and they spend Christmas morning trading diaper and feeding shifts.

On the twenty-sixth, Stiles leaves the apartment saying he has to go get some things, abandoning Peter with an infant for an indeterminable period of time. Peter wonders if this is wise. Little Terror cries the moment Stiles shuts the door, and Peter stuffs cotton swabs in his own ears. He sits on the couch, rocking a drooling baby, and frankly Peter has seen quite enough of bodily fluids from this one.

They watch a movie, a Christmas special of course, and Peter helps himself to the leftover food in the kitchen. He has only been doing this for a day, and he is pro at this formula thing. Get out of the way, Nanny’s Association of California. Peter is a baby expert.

It isn’t until Stiles comes back with a truckload of bags that Peter realizes he’d taken Peter’s card again.

“Look! An elf costume!” Peter is decidedly unimpressed. “It was seventy percent off, shut up.”

Stiles holds the outfit up, and immediately changes the kid out of her blue onesie and into the green and red one. It comes with a hat, overly large, pointed ears attached. Stiles takes a million and one pictures. There are bags of clothes and toys and things Peter had no idea babies even needed, and most of which he’s still convinced they don’t.

He feels a little outdone, when he hadn’t been aware there was even a competition.

When it’s dark again, and Stiles is finished bathing their girl in the little tub he bought, Peter goes online and finds a website with organic baby foods and hypoallergenic blankets. He wonders why Stiles has never thought about the additives and dyes in the food he has been feeding the baby, or that listening to tape of Mozart will produce genius babies, and adds it all to his cart. He refuses to be embarrassed, but when Stiles comes back from the bathroom, he hastily closes the browser and pretends to play Solitaire.

There is, however, one little purchase Stiles failed to mention until the following day.

“Matching sweaters, Peter.”

“No.”

“Come ooon,” Stiles begs, which suddenly makes Peter want to acquiesce. He’s never been so empathetic; this is a new record for him. “Don’t you want a Christmas card photo?”

“No.”

“Please?”

Only Stiles would interpret a hard negation as wavering fortitude.

The sweaters themselves aren’t wholly tasteless. They are knit, wooly, soft cream in color and trimmed in deep maroon. There is a march of reindeer and a thin line of snowflakes underneath their hoofs.

It’s the matching routine that has Peter swallowing bile. A bit too Bible study, suburban dad for him.

“I already asked Deputy Stacey to use his fancy evidence camera for a picture,” Stiles finagles. Which really means he went down to the station and harassed poor Bill Stacey with regalings of all the times Sheriff Stilinski allowed his deputies to take early vacations, until Stacey submitted to his guilty obligation. “And all my Instagram followers want to know who the mom is.”

Mother, Peter decides as he pulls on the damned sweater and stands beside Stiles and the baby in front of a camera and a mildly agitated Deputy, is better than grandfather. Stiles gives Stacey a tip that Peter thinks him rather undeserving of, as his scowl had startled the baby to tears in the middle of the shoot, resulting in the whole thing lasting thirty minutes longer and a wet spot on Peter’s sweater from baby snot.

Stiles sends the pictures in postcard format, which Target had been happy to stylize and reproduce, and wherever Peter goes, that damn picture of his annoyed face and Stiles’ smug grin pops up everywhere. He tucks one into his wallet when Stiles isn’t looking.

“Aw, why are Peter’s eyes closed?” Stiles’ father asks when he sees it for the first time. Stiles has to cover his hand with his mouth.

Peter rolls over the next morning at the precise time of 8:22. He spends the next seven minutes ruminating on the pathetic state of his life, reliving his failures and considering taking up the whole killing people lark again, before he finally peels eyelids open and is faced with the open mouthed, sleep-flushed Stiles across the narrow space of a pillow. He luxuriates, rubbing his feet cold against Stiles’ warm calves and scooting closer. This is… acceptable.

Stiles mutters something in his sleep, blowing morning breath in Peter’s face. Peter hides his grin in the sheets, spreading his hands along Stiles’ ribs. He presses his nose into the dip of Stiles’ collar bone, where his shirt has been stretched asunder, feels a rumble rise unbidden from his chest.

Stiles’ cell rings, the opening to _Highway Patrol_ , and Stiles moans, arching his body and swinging a limp arm over to his bedside desk. Fumbling noises, a beep for an accepted call, and Stiles other hand squeezes the back of Peter’s neck.

“Jordan, hey,” he groans into the receiver, never opening his eyes. His voice cracks with sleep. “Yeah, I’ve got him _right here_ \-- I mean her.  Yeah, she’s sleeping. In her crib.”

Peter doesn’t bother listening to whatever Sheriff ‘ _Jordan_ ‘ Parrish drones on about, rolling his eyes and mouthing hotly at Stiles’ adam’s apple. Stiles’ fingers dig into Peter’s nape, pull at the skin and hair. Peter growls.

“Suuuure, sure, we can bring her up to the station.” Stiles clears his throat of the somewhat whiny jump his voice had taken with the roll of Peter’s hips. “Why, though?”

Peter grins, hands on the back of Stiles’ thighs, fingers digging into the crease of his ass, but Stiles goes very still and sits up, effectively cutting off their very interesting topic of conversation, in favor of whatever Parrish is spewing instead.

“Oh.”

Stiles tosses the sheets off and swings himself out of bed

“Hmm, okay. I’ll see you later.”

He looks up from his phone at Peter. Peter raises his eyebrows, gesturing to his general groin area in such a way that he hopes allows their earlier activities to proceed.

“The baby’s aunt was found and contacted. She’s coming to pick her up at the station.”

Oh.

Peter sits up, rubbing his chest with his hand, and looks over at the sleeping girl in the makeshift carrier.

“But I ordered a crib. It’s mahogany and supposed to come in by next weekend.”

Stiles sighs and crawls back onto the bed, wraps his long arms around Peter and rests his chin on his shoulder. “Let’s get her clothes and stuff together.”

They do. Peter gets up and dressed, picks the baby girl out of her bed and feeds her, watches Stiles dismantle his apartment of the baby frenzy, tucking pastels and toys away in bags. When he’s finished, Stiles takes the bags down to his car.

Peter sits on the bed and stares down at the baby in his arms. She has a snot bubble wavering in one of her nostrils, and the tip of her tongue is sticking out. She looks very much like baby Laura had. Peter looks up helplessly to Stiles standing in the doorway to the bedroom. He’ got his jacket and boots on.

“Ready?”

Peter puts his socks and shoes on, slips his sweater and cashmere jacket over his head. He hates the cold.

Peter climbs into the front seat of Stiles’ ridiculous jeep with the baby in his arms. Stiles doesn’t try to put her in the carseat, just blasts the air vents and puts the car in reverse.

Tamara Pickens is a polite woman, wearing navy dress pants and her hair sculpted in an impressive knotted braid. Her heels click loudly in the station.

“Thank you for caring for her,” she says, looking at Peter. “I was so scared when my sister ran away. I can’t thank you and your son enough.”

No one corrects her, though Parrish looks like he’s swallowed a cradle-robbing flavored lemon. Stiles has this very large grin on his face, trouble in his eyes.

“Daddy and I are just happy her family was found,” Stiles replies sweetly. Peter offers the woman a grave expression and claps Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing his neck. Parrish drops his files, and Peter can hear the uneven pittering in his chest.

Ms. Pickens had gone to a Domestic Violence Service to report her sister and niece missing from probable threats from her ex-boyfriend.

“Say bye-bye, Ezra,” Mrs. Pickens says softly, taking the baby’s, Ezra’s, little hand by her finger and waving it. She gurgles, then does a strange thing with her face by scrunching up her nose and baring her teeth, channeling her inner werewolf. Peter swallows hard as they leave. They’re going somewhere to the East, to a safehouse so they can begin looking for Ezra’s mother.

“I expected more resistance,” Peter admits to Stiles when they’re sitting back at his apartment.

Stiles rubs a hand over Peter’s shoulder kneading it. His fingers still smell like formula and infant, gentle soap.

“Honestly, I’m fucking relieved,” Stiles says with a sigh, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m not ready to deal with a kid of my own, at least not until I see Derek fuck up having his.”

Peter snorts.

“Besides,” Stiles breathes, slipping into Peter’s lap and running his thumb over Peter’s lip, “I’d rather focus on you. Can you imagine us with kids? It was good practice for us when the Pack starts popping them out, but I don’t think you want one, right? Kira’s been doing pelvic exercises, for god’s sake.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, except grimace. Information he had not elected to know.

“This is about Derek, isn’t it?” Stiles murmurs, caressing Peter’s face. “You think now you’re not helping me out of necessity, you’ll go back to living in that hole, being ignored by the pack? Never meeting your nephew’s children?”

“I bought Mozart tapes,” Peter confides, “from that snooty baby website that uses pseudo science and animal cruelty free products. Motherknowsbest.org.”

Stiles chokes on a giggle, and Peter feels his neck burn.

“We’ll give them to Derek. Not that I think his kid doesn’t deserve the expensive things, but don’t they sell that Egyptian cotton stuff? That’s better than what I have! You’re clearly going to be the favorite uncle.”

“I’ll buy you Egyptian cotton sheets,” Peter promises, and Stiles gets that soft, fluttery look on his face. He presses down closer on Peter’s lap, and Peter’s throat rolls out a very werewolf sound.

“We don’t have a baby,” Stiles whispers against Peter’s mouth. “We could make one.”

Peter makes a questioning noise.

“Yeah, yeah, you can knot me up,” Stiles says deviously, rolling his hips into Peter’s. “Breed me.”

Peter knows it’s ridiculous. It doesn’t even make sense, what Stiles is talking about, but Jesus fucking Christ, Peter is so into it. And there is no damn kid beside them who will wake up if he makes Stiles scream.

They go to bed, undress with little reservation. Peter spends ages tasting Stiles’ skin, pressing his mouth to his neck, to the backs of his knees, to the soles of his feet. He insinuates the tip of his tongue into the crease between Stiles’ ass cheeks until Stiles begs him for more, until Peter runs the tip of his cock over his hole over and over. He holds off as long as he can stand before sinking into the sweet heat. Stiles relaxes and squeezes around him, sending coy looks over his shoulder. It’s velveteen, rankles at Peter in a way that makes him show his true face.

Stiles doesn’t shy away, reaches back to bring Peter’s clawed hand into his own and guide it to his cock. They rub Stiles off together, until he is panting damply into his pillow and spasming.

“You going to fill me up?” he asks Peter breathlessly, hand clenching where Peter is stroking too gently. Peter can feel the ache, the throb of his knot flushing with blood and need.

“Peter,” Stiles wheezes, shuddering perfectly for a blissful moment around him, and Peter humps into Stiles until he is buried deep. Stiles releases a strange cry, and Peter feels the pulse of his flesh as he comes.

“Knotting you up so good,” Peter sighs, slowing to a deep grind, his body acting on eons of muscle memory as he floods Stiles with his seed, feeling the catch and pull on his growing knot. And no, Peter doesn’t want a baby.

He wants what a baby gave him, and Stiles seemingly intends to not take it away. He keeps the Christmas card in his wallet.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Malapropian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian) and [Charlottecjhlvr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottecjhlvr/pseuds/charlottecjhlvr)
> 
> This is for [demios-itami](http://demios-itami.tumblr.com/) for playing Steter Secret Santa on Tumblr!


End file.
